


Post Script

by Tonight_At_Noon



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Humor, Romance, cleanliness is next to godliness, loosely based on to all the boys I loved before, only something happened and now bucky and darcy don't talk, so . . . get excited, so that should tell you something, steve and darcy and bucky grew up together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-06-29 03:50:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15721395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tonight_At_Noon/pseuds/Tonight_At_Noon
Summary: After enlisting her friend Steve's help in cleaning her flat in London, Darcy gets a surprise visit from an old face. It doesn't take her long to figure out why he has travelled an ocean to see her when she catches sight of the envelope in his hand. The envelope she had addressed while still in high school. The envelope containing the letters she never, ever intended to send.





	1. There Is No Message We're Receiving

**Author's Note:**

> I can't stay away from these guys for too long. And after I watched the To All the Boys I've Loved Before adaptation, I was struck by this story idea. 
> 
> Part two is in the works, but school is about to start, so I don't know when I'll be able to post. But it hopefully won't be a massive break between updates!

The clutter was getting ridiculous. No, it was way past ridiculous—it had entered unbelievably disgusting territory somehow.

 _Somehow_. That wasn't right. She knew perfectly well how her once-spotless and stunning apartment had turned into a landfill. It just hurt her still to think about, so she often lied to herself regarding the mess's origins.

Before Ian left her, their one-bedroom in London had rivalled most penthouses. They were clever with their interior design choices and every Saturday was cleaning day, no matter what. Once, she had been suffering badly from the flu, but she managed to pull herself out of bed long enough to sweep and hoover the floors and dust the surfaces. Then she had collapsed on the sofa in their living room and not woken for nearly fifteen hours.

But then Ian left her. On a Friday. And when that Friday turned into Saturday, Darcy had no drive whatsoever to pick herself up off of their bed— _her_ bed; it was solely hers now, how strange a thought—and clean the minimal mess. Besides, Ian had taken all of his things which meant there wasn't nearly as much to clean in the first place.

Monday arrived and Darcy still had not cleaned. She barely had the strength to shower and get herself to work, and once she was seated at her desk she found herself tearing up over the silliest things. Someone asking for two sugars in their tea? Better cry because Ian also liked the occasional teaspoon of sugar. Someone pointing out that Darcy had spelled a word wrong on the latest draft of an article? Better sob so hard she couldn't see straight because Ian would also correct her spelling mistakes.

By the time she arrived home what felt like an eternity later—but it was really only three hours; Darcy's boss had been so put off by her random bouts of sobbing that he had sent her home early—all she could do was strip herself of her work clothes and crawl into  _her_  bed. Her boss called in the morning to inform her the next two days were hers to take off. He didn't want her back until she could promise there would be no more tears. Accepting his offer, she remained home for the following forty-eight hours.

Not a spot of cleaning happened during that time.

She returned to work on the Thursday, holding her breath and clenching her jaw every time her eyes itched. With her work day complete, she came home and . . . still didn't clean. Each day rolled into the next without any drive to pick up her dirty clothes or stack the dishwasher or throw away microwave Indian containers.

Three months had passed since the sudden breakup, and the flat was a right tip. The floor in her bedroom was nonexistent. The kitchen countertops were coated in an odd, sticky grime. The sink was filled with crusted plates.

Of course, Darcy was in such a post-breakup daze that she hardly noticed the disarray. It was only when her friend Jane and Jane's husband Thor came over to check on her did it occur to her that the mess was getting slightly out of hand.

"You realise you have no bedroom floor, right?" Jane said, coming out of Darcy's room and joining Thor on the sofa.

Darcy exited the kitchen with packets of biscuits in her arms. She dumped them on the wooden coffee table in front of the sofa and returned to the kitchen to grab the teapot and teacups. "I have a little bit of a floor," she said, stirring the tea. Tossing the spoon in the overflowing sink, she came out of the kitchen again. "There's a pathway from the door to the bed."

Filling hers and Thor's cups with tea, no sugar, no milk, Jane rolled her eyes. "It's a bedroom, not a jungle. You need more than a pathway.

"I know that, but it's really difficult to think about cleaning now that . . . that Ian's gone."

"Oh, good job. You managed to say his name without crying. That's progress."

Darcy had been working on it. Staring at herself in the mirror and saying his name over and over until she could do it without her throat closing up.

"It's been three months," she said, sitting on the floor opposite Jane. "I'm perfectly capable of saying his name without crying."

"Theb why camp you clam?" Jane asked. Her mouth was full of a chocolate digestive, but Darcy understood what she meant.

"Because . . . because I just can't. We always cleaned together and I don't know how to do it by myself." It was a lame excuse, but it was the only one Darcy had.

Jane put her teacup down on a pile of newspapers and leaned forward. "You can't keep living like this. Ian is out there doing just fine, and I really think that cleaning this apartment will help you move on. It'll be like purging yourself of him."

"What if I don't want to purge myself of him?" she asked, her lip wobbling. "What if I  _can't_? I was with him for five years, Jane. I feel like he's always going to be here."

"Please, Darce, just find someone to help you. Get it out of the way and see how you feel once the job is done."

Jane was looking at her with such sadness in her eyes. Like she had never seen someone so heartbroken before. But just thinking of going into the broom cupboard and getting out all of the cleaning supplies was enough to make Darcy's face start crumpling.

She couldn't do it. She wasn't nearly strong enough yet.

"It  _is_  starting to smell." Darcy and Jane turned to Thor. He had his nose in the air. It was the first time he had spoken since the tea had been served. "The other people in your building might think you've murdered someone and stuffed their dead body in the floorboards if you don't clean up soon."

That was what sold her on finding someone to aid her in tidying the apartment. When she and Jane had finished laughing, Darcy promised to call someone the minute they left, and she knew exactly who she was going to elicit for help.

Giving herself no time to question her decision once Jane and Thor had departed, Darcy picked up her cell phone and dialled.

"Darcy Lewis, how can I help?"

Just hearing the voice on the other end calmed her raging heartbeat. "Steve," she said, "how good are you at cleaning?"

"Um, why do you ask?"

Darcy stood at the doorway to her kitchen, her eyes scanning every crowded, tacky surface. "I need a bit of help getting my apartment sorted. Things have kinda fallen apart since . . . since Ian left and I haven't been able to clean. I was hoping you could stop by before you need to head back to the States."

Steve's response was quick. "I'd make time for you, Darcy. I can come by tomorrow morning. 10:00 okay with you?"

It was settled. Steve would use one of his remaining days in London to lend his services to her filthy apartment. She hung up after thanking him profusely, a determined look on her face that slowly fell as she went from the kitchen to her bedroom to have a good cry. It had been an exhausting day so far having to pretend in front of Jane and Thor that she was steadily getting better.

In reality, she was suffering more and more every day. She was just getting better at putting on a mask of composure.

But tomorrow, when Steve was there and they were cleaning together, she had a feeling things would really begin turning around.

Darcy met Steve Rogers freshman year of high school. There had been three of them roaming the halls of a now-closed high school in Brooklyn—scandals (the gross kind that start as whispers but soon turn into headlines) and lack of government funding led to its demise. The trio were completely inseparable and hailed from all walks of life. Darcy was the girl with a single mother who wore glasses and loved reading articles on anything that even slightly struck her interest. Steve was the skinny orphan boy who by sophomore year had bulked out and grown almost a foot, but who remained as loyal and kind as he had been before his transformation.

And then there was Bucky Barnes, a charmer through and through. He had both parents. He had a winning smile and was capable of growing a full beard by the age of fifteen. He was a star athlete on the school's swim team. Girls fell at his feet, and Bucky was always willing to pick them up.

She didn't understand what drew the three of them together. Sure, it all started at lunch when scrawny little Steve tried punching someone for knocking Darcy's tray out of her hands. Steve had been too small then to properly fight, and in the end Bucky had to intervene. They all got after school detention and sat in a room, silently watching the clock together. But after that, they gathered together at lunch, and nobody ever bothered Darcy again because everyone knew Bucky would bloody them if they did.

Most adults—the ones who weren't furiously popular—said high school was the worst, but Darcy Lewis had to disagree. High school for her was almost a second home. With Steve and Bucky by her side, she was safe and happy without needing to be one of the kids whose locker space was always crowded.

It was the hardest thing at the time saying goodbye to Steve the day she left for Oxford. Made especially hard by Bucky's absence.

Darcy was trekking down memory lane when Steve arrived at her flat the following morning. He was in town for work and had dressed in his uniform to prove it.

"You really shouldn't have worn that," Darcy said, extracting herself from Steve's hug.

"Yeah, I can see why." Steve walked around Darcy, his eyes moving from surface to surface. Each new spot he took in, the wider his stare got. He went to the sink and picked up a bowl which she thought at one time was home to porridge. "When was the last time you washed a dish?"

Cringing, Darcy joined him in the kitchen. She took the bowl out of his hand and placed it on top of the pile. "I'll rinse one out when I need to," she said, more embarrassed than she had been when Jane was critiquing her gross tableware.

Jane had been judge-y going through her apartment yesterday—the first time Darcy had allowed anyone inside since the split. But Steve just looked from the sink to Darcy with those sad eyes of his that were far too understanding and kind.

"That's why I need your help," she said. "Because I haven't been able to scrub a fucking bowl properly in three months."

"Do you want to tell me what happened?" Steve must have understood Darcy's alarmed intake of breath because he quickly added, "You can do it while we wash the dishes. I want to know, Darcy. This is the kind of thing you usually would have explained the moment it happened."

Darcy shrugged. Normally, she would have sat Steve and Bucky down and gone through the breakup minuscule detail by minuscule detail. But things were different now. There was no Bucky for starters. And calling Steve was always difficult because he was constantly busy doing army things. The five hour time difference didn't help, either.

"I was going to tell you the other night at dinner, but I chickened out," she said.

"Tell me now," Steve said, grabbing the Fairy liquid and a sponge. He handed Darcy a plate decorated with old, dried-up beans.

Taking the plate, Darcy decided to throw caution to the wind. Telling Steve the story would probably help in the long run, even if just the thought of saying it out loud made her want to throw up and implode.

So, she told him.

She told him all about how her "struggling author" boyfriend of five years packed his things away while she was busy at work. She told him about the note he had written her. The lovely note that read:  _darcy. you've got to admit, this hasn't been working for a while. you remember susie, don't you? well, she's pregnant. it's mine and we're headed for france. good luck to you_.

She told Steve that when she called Ian after reading the note—to see if this was all a horrible particle joke, or if he'd been murdered and the murderer thought leaving the note would stop her from finding out he had been murdered—he said the affair had been going for nearly two years. He said it started because Darcy worked too much and didn't love him enough.

Which was ridiculous. Darcy had never loved anyone as much as she loved Ian.

She told Steve that Ian hung up on her after telling her that, and she hadn't heard from him since.

Steve was good. He let her talk it out, let her cry, and didn't speak until she had wiped her eyes and nose and smiled a pathetic smile. "That's . . . rough. And horrible." He paused. " _Two_ years he was cheating on you?"

Her eyes were starting to wet again. She took a new dirty item and ran it under warm water. "Apparently."

"And that note . . . it sounds like it was written by a child."

"It would seem that it was," she said.

Steve dried the fork she gave him, an empathy only he could conjure in his blue eyes. "You won't want to hear this," he said kindly, setting aside the drying towel and placing two hands on Darcy's shoulders. She hated when he did this—she felt like a kid being reprimanded by her dad. "But I think it's good that he left you. I only wish you had done it two years sooner, before he started the affair. You don't really want him back, do you?"

That was the big question, wasn't it. Did she want him back?

In all honesty, she had a simple answer:  _no_. Ian cheated on her. He knocked up his writer's workshop buddy and moved her and their unborn child to France, leaving his disgusting soy milk in the fridge. He tore a giant, gaping hole into her world, and she knew if she ever laid eyes on him again, she would instantly go into fight mode.

But none of that mattered. It didn't change the fact that Ian had been her boyfriend for five years, even if he had been unfaithful for two of them. It didn't change the fact that those five years were, in Darcy's mind, some pretty great years.

She loved him. Hard. And that love wasn't given a chance to gradually fade away like it had done during the two relationships she had in high school. It was ripped from her.

"You never liked him," she said to Steve. There was one thing left in the sink. Ian's favourite bowl. It had Mickey Mouse's face on the side.

Steve picked up the bowl and started rinsing it. He didn't meet Darcy's eye. "I mean, I only met him twice. I think  _he_  was the one who didn't like  _me_."

"Because you didn't like him!" Darcy said, on the verge of laughing. Heartbreak did funny things to your sense of humour. "And you intimidated him."

Almost finished with sudsing the bowl, Steve raised it out of the sink in an effort to argue with Darcy's claim. He opened his mouth, but the bowl flew from his hand before he could say anything.

Darcy watched the wet, bubbly Mickey Mouse crash to the hardwood kitchen floor. It splintered madly. Shards of the ceramic bowl went in all directions. Steve swore under his breath and immediately got to his knees to clear the mess.

"Sorry, Darcy," he apologised.

Opening a drawer, Darcy reached inside and brought out a brown paper bag. She gave it to Steve. "It's fine," she said. "That was Ian's anyway."

"Oh! Well, in that case, good riddance," said Steve, shoving the last bit inside the bag harshly. He stood up and folded the bag before handing to Darcy to throw out. "That's the dishes done. What do you think we should tackle next?"

Darcy didn't have to think very long. She remembered what Jane had said yesterday. "My room."

Darcy led the way, ignoring Steve's face when he took in the sight of her underwear on the floor. "Obviously, I'm not expecting you to touch it," she said. "You can deal with the closet, I'll handle this mess."

Steve looked relieved. "We're close," he said, opening the door to her closet, "but not that close."

"Agreed."

Most of the mess in the room was due to lack of cleaning on Darcy's part, but Ian had tossed a handful of her things to the ground when he packed for his escape. She probably could have forced herself to keep up with her bedroom if he hadn't done that. Each time she looked at the piles of clothes, she imagined Ian frantically sorting through everything to find what he needed.

Darcy and Steve spent nearly two hours in the bedroom. When he had placed all of her nice clothes on hangers and she had cleared the floor, they hoovered and swept the dust. The hoover needed emptying twice.

"What is this?" Steve exited the closet now that it was completely clean holding a large, blue book that didn't want to close all the way.

Darcy was sitting on her bed and beckoned Steve to her. He sat beside her, handing the book to her. "Wow," she said, brushing the fuzzy cover. In the centre was a photograph. Her, Steve, and Bucky. All in their swimsuits the last weekend the local pool was open their senior year.

"What is it?" Steve repeated.

"A scrapbook," Darcy said. "A scrapbook dedicated to the four years we spent together."

"Open it," he urged.

Obeying, Darcy lifted the front cover. The first pages were from when the three of them first started hanging out. There was one photograph of the trio at lunch freshman year. Darcy remembered asking the cafeteria monitor to take it.

She was smiling, sitting between the boys with her arms around their shoulders. Steve was trying to look happy, but someone had tripped him up that morning and his heart wasn't in it. Bucky, on the other hand, was owning the camera. His stormy blue eyes were squinted and he was resting his chin on Darcy's shoulder, smirking like the movie stars did.

They flipped through the book, laughing about all of the mischief they got up to in high school. When they reached the pages dedicated to their senior year prom, a darkness entered the room.

There was happiness in each photo. Darcy had worn a deep red dress that showed off a slight amount of cleavage and she had recently switched to contacts, so there was no trace of glare in any picture. When the boys had seen her, their eyes had gone as wide as saucepans. Bucky and Steve dressed in fitted suits. Standing side by side on the dance floor, glowing with sweat, they looked almost like brothers.

Another photo showed Darcy and Bucky slow dancing. The DJ had put on "Everything Will Be Alright" by the Killers, and Bucky had insisted she dance with him. His arms were holding her close. She had her head pressed against his chest. Her hands cupped his neck.

It had been a good night. But Steve and Darcy knew what was coming.

Bracing herself, Darcy turned to the final page. They were all in a hospital room. Steve and Darcy were sitting either side of Bucky, whose entire left side was bandaged up. They were fast asleep.

Stroking the photo, Darcy looked up at Steve. "How is he?" she asked quietly, her throat tight. She avoided asking this question whenever she saw Steve. Mostly because she afraid of the answer.

Steve stared blankly at the page. He blinked and offered Darcy a small smile. "He's better," he said. "Much better, actually, from what I can gather. He's got a job coaching little kids at some elite swimming club."

"Wow, that's amazing," Darcy said, shocked.

"Yeah. He's also training for the paralympics. Or something like it. I can't remember."

"He's back in the water?"

Steve nodded. "He's back in the water. He was angry for a long time, Darce, but he really is getting back to his old self."

Darcy knew what he meant, but Bucky would never really be back to his old self.

The story goes like this:

Prom night was over. She and Steve and Bucky were contemplating going to an after party. Usually, parties were Bucky's scene, but they thought it might be a fun idea. Only when they were finally on their way to one of the many to which Bucky had been invited, Bucky decided he wasn't in a partying mood. Darcy and Steve were in no position to argue, so they let him drop them off at their respective homes, knowing they would see each other the following morning for breakfast at a local diner.

Darcy had been dropped off last. Neither she nor Bucky talked on the way to her apartment, but there was an electric current in the air. A spark that had jumped to life as they swayed like drunkards on the dance floor.

He parked his car outside the building. Cool air blew through the vents, and the dance must have put him in a Killers mood because "Human" was escaping the speakers.

Darcy's heart thumped against her chest. Nerves swarmed her stomach, making her feel almost sick with trepidation.

"I'm sorry your date was a no-show," he had said, staring down at his hands.

"I'm sorry your girlfriend dumped you," she had said.

A barely-there, rueful smile pulled his lips. "I was gonna do it after graduation anyway," he told her. He straightened his neck and turned to face Darcy. "She just beat me to the punch. Besides, I'm glad she did. Otherwise I wouldn't have been able to spend the night with you."

"And Steve," she had said automatically.

Bucky just shook his head, a real smile now decorating his handsome face. "And Steve," he had allowed. Then, his voice got low. He leaned closer to Darcy, his large hands taking hers. "But mostly you."

And then he had kissed her. A soft, warm kiss.

Darcy's eyes had closed and she released a sigh she had been holding since the day she met Bucky Barnes.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he had said after they separated.

"Yes," she agreed, climbing out of the car, her body vibrating.

She watched him drive off, fingers pressed to her mouth.

They did see Bucky the next day, but it wasn't at the diner. In the middle of the night, Darcy's mother got a call from Bucky's parents to say he had been in an accident. It was bad. So bad, the doctors weren't sure he would make it through surgery.

But Bucky Barnes was a fighter. He pulled through, and Steve and Darcy were allowed to visit him the following evening. It was weird seeing him with only one arm. Sad, too. His parents had already called USC to give them the news that he wouldn't be able to accept the swimming scholarship.

They never got to talk about what had happened in his car. To be honest, Darcy hadn't wanted to. Each time she pictured the kiss, the image was quickly replaced by Bucky lying bloodied and limp on the road.

She left him and Steve that night, and she hadn't seen Bucky since. He didn't make it to graduation. She moved to England the day after for Oxford.

"I miss him," she said to Steve, closing the scrapbook. Her eyes stung with tears. Different tears than she had been crying since Ian left. Somehow, these were more painful. "I don't think I realised that I missed him until just now."

Steve opened his arms. Darcy collapsed into them, her wet cheeks dampening Steve's uniform. "He misses you too."

"Has he told you that, or are you just guessing?"

"He's never explicitly said it, but when I mention you he always gets this look in his eye. It's like . . . longing."

Steve held Darcy until he had to leave for work. He made her promise to keep up with her apartment, and then he made her promise to visit him sometime before the year's end. She agreed to both, but they both knew getting her stateside again wasn't going to happen anytime soon.

Closing the door after Steve, Darcy wiped her face and looked around. Everything was pretty much spotless. God, how light she felt in the space now it was clean. How free.

Jane had been right. Clearing the flat was akin to purging herself of Ian, something she supposed she was ready for. It had been long enough.

As Steve had said, good riddance.

**. . .**

Three Saturdays after the big Ian Cleanse and Darcy was feeling much better about the whole situation. She had kept on top of cleaning. Work was going well. Everything was coming up roses. It was a nice change from the rough months following the breakup.

Jane and Thor had been 'round twice to admire the place and attempt to set Darcy up with Thor's brother. But as she said to them, she wasn't ready yet for another relationship. Ian may be gone from her heart, but she was still going to need more time before she was able to trust someone again.

It was an early morning in June. She had opened her windows first thing and was surprised that the forecast called for a sunny, warm day. Usually, June in London meant random bursts of rain and lingering winter temperatures, but the sky did look exceptionally blue.

Darcy was busy checking over her latest article when someone knocked on the door to her flat. She heaved herself off of the sofa—she always corrected her work lying down—and hopped to the door. She didn't bother with the peephole. It was always more fun to be surprised.

Except for this time.

This time, she should have checked the peephole.

"Bucky?" she gasped, nearly inhaling her tongue.

He was there. In the flesh. Looking as handsome as ever. His hair had grown out a bit. So had his beard. He was wearing a t-shirt, and Darcy's eyes automatically skipped to the space where his left arm used to be before moving to his right arm.

He held a large envelope in his hand.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, shifting her focus to his eyes.

"I'm here because of these," he said. He showed her the envelope.

It was addressed to him. From her.

Oh, God. She knew  _exactly_  what was in that envelope.

But how? Surely, it was still in her closet. That was where it had always been. She sure as hell had never moved it.

"How did you get that? Who gave it to you?" she demanded, a sickness blossoming in her belly. She felt lightheaded.

Bucky's face bunched in confusion, and goddammit he looked adorable. "You didn't send it?"

"No, Bucky," she said, "I didn't send you the multiple love letters I wrote you over the course of nine years on a whim."


	2. Let Me Know, Is Your Heart Still Beating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if I have ever gotten so much support for a story in such a short amount of time. Thank you to every single one of you. It really pushed me to get this final part out to you!
> 
> I hope this is a satisfactory ending. But then again, maybe it won't be the end. . .
> 
> It's just occurred to me that I have never shamelessly plugged my Tumblr account on here, but if you like what I write on here, and if you like all things MCU/B99/Star Wars/The End of the F***ing World/Random Posts, etc. then check me out at Ours-Is-Feral-Love. 
> 
> Thanks again, guys! Now, let's get these two lovebirds together.
> 
> Enjoy.

Darcy Lewis penned her first love letter to Bucky Barnes the day they met. She got home from school, flung her backpack on the floor of her purple bedroom, and sat at her desk with a piece of lined paper. Her heart was so full—she had never been more excited about a boy.

 _Dear Bucky_ , she had said,

 _What a name! Bucky._ (She didn't yet know his real name was James, and wouldn't until halfway through freshman year when she made a fool of herself asking Bucky's mom what inspired his unique name.)  _It's the name of a wild stallion. And that's what you are, Bucky—a wild stallion. Untamed and gorgeous._

 _The way you defended Steve Rogers—and me by default—at lunch was amazing. I've never seen anything like it. I hope your hand is feeling better, or that it doesn't feel any worse. It looked pretty bad in detention, but the swelling didn't seem to bother you at all. You're so brave, Bucky._ _Brave Bucky—it could be your nickname_ _._

_No, that's silly._

_Anyway, I'm writing this because at the end of detention, you said you'd see me tomorrow, and I can't really explain it, but it's like my heart did a somersault and landed in my stomach. The thought of you looking around for me tomorrow makes me happier than I've been in a while. Because you're cute and you're brave and I know we've only said a few words to each other, but I think I might like you._

_And I don't think I'll ever send you this. Now that I'm thinking about it, you reading this would probably be the worst thing in the world. Because you're cooler than me, Bucky. You're handsomer and I can already tell you're more popular. All the girls talk about you. I mean ALL of them. And you probably didn't mean anything when you said you'd see me tomorrow._

_It doesn't matter, though. I'll hold on to those words, and I'll hold on to you._

_Love,_

_Darcy_

He had meant it, the thing about seeing her tomorrow. At lunch the next day Bucky's eyes found her the instant she stepped inside the cafeteria. He patted the seat next to him, and even though she told it not to, her heart did that somersault again. She had asked about his hand. The light purple bruises from yesterday had turned almost black. She remembered he lifted it up to observe the marks, straightened his fingers out with difficulty, and said,  _it's not that bad_.

She also remembered the painful twitch of his mouth when he tried flexing them again.

Brave Bucky.

Their friendship blossomed fairly quick. Eating lunch together every day was only the beginning. Soon, the trio were hanging out at each other's houses, doing homework and watching movies and playing video games. The boys loved showing her how to properly murder zombies. Sometimes, if the hour got late enough and there was no sign of their night coming to an end, their parents would all begrudgingly agree to a sleepover. And even though they were teenagers at this point, and even though Darcy was a girl, some of their best memories were from those sleepovers.

Staying up until the sunrise, binging on cookies and soda, falling asleep between her two best friends. It was bliss.

It was bliss, because when Bucky wasn't as school, he was hers— _theirs_ ; hers and  _Steve's_. He sort of . . . shook off his i'm-so-handsome-and-don't-i-know-it attitude the moment the final bell rang. He would say goodbye to whatever girl he was teasing that day and join her and Steve as the truest version of himself. The version of himself that secretly liked  _Winnie the Pooh_  because the yellow bear made him feel like a kid again.

School hours were different. Lunch was okay most of the time, but in the halls or in the various classes she shared with Bucky, she had to watch him play both teams. Humour her and Steve, humour the football players and cheerleaders. Agree to walk with Darcy to the grocery store because her mom was working a late shift, agree to take Cynthia Wilson to the diner across the road because she batted her eyelids at him during gym.

She wrote her third love letter when she was angry at Bucky.

 _Bucky_ , she had said—no  _Dear_ , he didn't deserve it,

_You forgot. Do you know what you forgot? I bet you don't even know what you forgot._

_My birthday, Bucky. You forgot my birthday. I know it's a Saturday and Saturdays are in-between days for you, but you've known about this for two months. I kept reminding you that we were having a small party at my apartment. I even reminded you YESTERDAY! But no, you're probably too busy shoving your stupid tongue down Cynthia's poor throat. Or is it Angela Roland this weekend?_

_Who can even keep track? Certainly not me._

_I don't know how I'm going to look at you on Monday. Maybe I just won't sit with you and wait to see if you figure out why I'm not sitting with you. Maybe I'll go up to your locker and say, "thanks for the birthday present," and watch your face fall as you realise that you messed up._

_But I can't say those things. Not to you._

_Dammit, Bucky. Stop doing this to me!_

_Again, you'll never see this, but just know that today, you hurt me._

_Love,_

_Darcy_

She had been sitting in her bedroom an hour after signing her name when she heard a knock on the front door. Her mom wasn't home, so she heaved herself out of her desk chair and went to see who it was. Staring through the peephole, she saw Bucky Barnes standing with his arms behind his back, rocking back and forth on his heels.

He looked nervous.

Opening the door, she watched his eyes go wide before his face straightened out. "Darcy," he said, sounding out of breath, "I am so sorry."

Sure he was. Steve must have told him. "What are you doing here?"

"Can I come in?"

"No. Not until you tell me why you're here," she said, blocking the doorway.

"To apologise!" he exclaimed. "It completely slipped my mind that it was your birthday today. I'm sorry."

He had looked genuinely sorry. There was a pleading in his voice. But she was still mad.

"When did you figure it out?" she asked.

"Twenty minutes ago," he said. "I left Pamela's house"— _ah, it was already on to Pamela—_ "as soon as I remembered, ran to my place to grab your present, and came straight here. Mrs. Watson let me in."

Damn that Mrs. Watson. Darcy didn't like her or her pretty, redhead daughter. "Steve didn't come by, then? He didn't phone?" She wasn't done interrogating him yet.

Bucky shook his head adamantly. "I remembered all on my own," he said. "Please, Darcy, let me in."

And just like that, the anger from earlier vanished into thin air. In its place was that heavy, pulsing heartache.

Stepping aside, she ushered Bucky into the apartment and shut the door. They stood facing each other in silence until Bucky seemed to remember why he had come. He showed her what he had been hiding behind his back.

A box. Just a box, but tied around it was the prettiest, neatest bow.

"My peace offering," he had said.

And Darcy had reluctantly smiled. She took the box. Untying the bow, she lifted the top to reveal a leather-bound notebook with her name engraved on the bottom left corner.

Her throat itched. Slipping her fingers against the soft cover, she noticed Bucky watching her closely.

"Thank you," she whispered, sure her voice would crack if she spoke any louder.

"For when you become a big shot journalist," he explained. He smiled wide, knowing he was forgiven. "And . . . you know, you're welcome."

Her fifteenth birthday was the day she realised she would love Bucky Barnes no matter what. No matter how many times he pissed her off. No matter how many times he showed up at Darcy's apartment at 9:00 the night before an exam to steal her notes. No matter how many girls he invited to their lunch table.

She did try to push him out, but with one smile he ended up right where he had started.

Eventually, she got used to it. To the pain of loving someone who would never see her that way. She excelled at swallowing her feelings for Bucky down—she had to, really. There were so many girls to compete with, none of whom looked like her. And she pretended not to mind those girls whose faces would change every other week. She pretended not to wish she was the one sitting on Bucky's lap, letting him feed her French fries.

Besides, she had Steve. Whenever Bucky was off doing something else, she always had Steve, who stuck by her even after his growth spurt. Even after he started working out.

She still wrote Bucky love letters. Just to talk to him about the things she could never say to his face. Like how frightened she was of sex, or how nice he looked in his homecoming tux. Or how badly it hurt to watch him kiss other girls in the halls.

She sealed every one of them, dated it, and slipped it inside a manila envelope addressed to his parent's home.

By junior year, Bucky had stopped jumping from girl to girl. He got a steady girlfriend. She got a steady boyfriend, too, just so she would have someone to distract her from how happy Bucky seemed. Which wasn't entirely fair, but she did end up really liking him.

She only wrote him one letter that year to tell him that she had sex and how much she disliked it.

Senior year snuck up on them. The trio—who had lunch together still, as if the universe, or the system that decided on their schedules, knew to keep them together—spent the first semester biting their nails over college applications and army recruitments.

When Darcy's boyfriend decided to end things over winter break, the boys came by her apartment and they had a movie night that ended with the three of them passed out on the floor. Darcy had awoken with her head squished against Bucky's shoulder, and her heart beat so loud she was afraid he would hear and wake up.

And then prom night came, with Bucky and Darcy and Steve as single as they were the day they met.

And then Bucky drove her home. And then he kissed her. And she wrote him another love letter the second she got to her bedroom.

 _Dear Bucky_ ,

_You kissed me tonight. It just happened. I can still feel your mouth on mine, and if I close my eyes, I can pretend I'm still in your car._

_It's been almost four years since we met, which means it's been almost four years since I decided, at the ripe, young age of fourteen, that I was in love with you. And sometimes I think I forget that I love you, but then you do something to remind me and I wonder how on earth I managed to forget._

_Tonight, you reminded me. Really, really reminded me. And you've made me wonder—do you love me too?_

_I feel sick just thinking of the possibility! Because this time there is a possibility, isn't there? Isn't that why you kissed me?_

_I wish I wasn't leaving so soon. Oxford is so far away from New York, but even further away from California. We'll have to sort ourselves out before graduation, Bucky. I don't want to leave without knowing._

_Love,_

_Darcy_

She really thought about sending that one. But then the accident happened, and the memory of the kiss made her feel sick in a completely different way.

She did write to him before she left. A goodbye she never gave him. And she kept writing to him in England. He was like her diary. The one person to whom she could tell everything. She wrote him when her mom got sick and when she arrived in New York for the funeral. Steve was there, but Bucky hadn't shown. She wrote him after she met Ian too, to tell him all about how Ian gave her the same sort of butterflies Bucky once had.

The last letter she sealed inside the manila envelope was the tearstained page explaining her breakup with Ian. It was the first time she'd written Bucky's name in years.

"Can I come in?"

Startling out of her deep reverie, Darcy blanched at the thought of inviting Bucky inside. She stared at him, then her eyes moved to the envelope again and she thought she might throw up.

He had seen the letters. He had  _read_ them. Each and every one, all of the things she never wanted him to know. All of the things she desperately  _needed him_ to know. She could tell by the resolution in his eyes that her secrets were now also his.

"No," she said harshly.

"What?" Bucky took a half-step back as if she had shoved him. "Why not?"

"Because . . . because you're going to make fun of me for having an obsessive crush on you all throughout high school and I am not prepared for that kind of humiliation," she burst, her hand reflexively going to her nose to push her glasses up despite the fact that she got rid of them several years ago.

Bucky tilted his head. He looked hurt. "How could you think I'd make fun of you?"

She didn't have an answer. The Bucky she knew would never make fun of anyone. But that was the thing, wasn't it? This Bucky, the one at her door, might not be  _her_  Bucky. Her Bucky might have died in the accident.

Steve did say losing his arm had changed him.

"Why are you here?" she asked.

"It's not to make fun of you, I can tell you that much."

"Then why? To let me down gently?" Her voice was getting shrill, but every time she caught a glimpse of the envelope, it felt like her world was crashing around her. Darcy did not deal with shock very well.

Bucky laughed. Actually laughed. A huff of a noise that lacked any trace of humour. "You think I travelled over 3,000 miles across an ocean to either taunt you or to let you down gently?"

"Well, when you put it like that," she admitted, fidgeting with the hem of her t-shirt, "it doesn't make a lot of sense."

"Please, Darcy," he said, and it was that— _that_ , hearing her name come out of his mouth after so many years of silence—that ended up being her downfall.

After everything, she still loved him. She could sense the dormant emotion growing inside of her. Feel it getting stronger and louder.

Darcy stepped aside, her hand clutching the door for support. Taking the hint, Bucky and her dozens of letters entered her apartment. She shut the door. Turning around, she watched Bucky step further into the living room, taking in the view of the London streets outside the open window.

Her apartment in New York looked out over Brooklyn's busy streets, and if she was careless enough to forget that she and Bucky were now in their twenties, she could imagine they were there. Just two young fools with no clue what life would end up throwing their way.

"So," Darcy said from where she remained by the door. Bucky rotated, finding her eyes instantly. She fought off a shiver. "Are you going to tell me what you're doing here?"

He shook the envelope. "I came for an explanation, and I guess a bit of a confession."

Right. The letters. The ones that should have been in her closet.

 _Steve_!

She said his name. "Steve."

"What?"

"Steve," she said, confusion and betrayal rising inside of her. "He was here last month to help me clean. I gave him the task of clearing out my closet, and he . . . he must have spotted the envelope.  _And_  he must have seen that I'd addressed it to you."

"You really didn't send these?" Bucky said. "You're telling me  _Steve Rogers_ invaded your privacy and mailed this to me?"

"It really is the only other explanation. I don't think he knew what was inside," she said, giving Steve the benefit of the doubt. He would never intentionally humiliate her like this. "He just saw your name and . . . well, he probably thought we needed to talk to each other."

Bucky had sat down, as if the information was too much. Which, she supposed, it was. A handful of love letters from a former best friend sent by another best friend without the other person knowing . . . it was a lot to take in.

"You weren't ever supposed to read those, Bucky," Darcy said after a long silence.

Bucky twisted his neck and looked up at her. "Why not? Why wouldn't you tell me all of these things yourself?"

Moving forward, Darcy paused halfway to the sofa. Her feet wouldn't take her any further. "You don't think I wanted to? Do you think I liked having all of those feelings for you? I tried so hard to get rid of them. I thought that by writing them down, I'd be washing myself clean of them, but they just. Kept. Coming. Back. Every damn time."

"Every time?" he said. "The last one is from just a few months ago. The one after your breakup with the asshole. You never stopped writing, so does that mean—does that mean your feelings have never changed?"

Darcy threw up her hands. "I don't know! It became a habit. Whenever anything big happened, I had to tell you."

Abruptly, Bucky stood. He came over to Darcy and took her hand like the night he kissed her. His touch ignited her skin. Awoke her nerve-endings. Up close, his face inches from hers, he looked so much older than just twenty-three. Anger and resentment will do that to a person.

But there was still her Bucky in there. Swimming in his eyes.

"But love, Darcy," he said, burning. "Every one of these ends with love."

"Well, maybe I never fell out of love with you."

She said the words without thinking, but the instant they left her mouth, Darcy knew they were true. Nothing had changed. Well, practically everything had changed—Bucky was one arm down, she was in London, they were  _grown-ups_. But her heart was still flipping around in her chest like a mad thing, drunk on the way Bucky's eyes bore into her.

The distance, the time, Ian—nothing had managed to erase this man. She still loved him. Still, after everything that had happened.

Bucky did something that surprised her. He smiled. He smiled wide, showing off those perfect teeth. One of those smiles from their youth that all of the girls went mad over. That  _she_ went mad over.

His hand tightened around hers. "I'm going to tell you something," he announced, the words coming out stretched, "and you are going to have to promise that you'll believe me. Do you promise?"

Darcy was slightly overwhelmed. Her heart felt like it was going to explode, but she nodded. "I promise."

"Darcy Lewis, I have had a crush on you since junior year," he revealed. Darcy's jaw went slack, a sight that made Bucky's smile grow. "More than a crush, Darcy. And I didn't say anything about it because I always felt like you were too smart to ever think of me that way. I thought you'd see right through my bullshit. So, I got a girlfriend, and then you got a boyfriend, but I still couldn't stop thinking about you."

"Wait—" Darcy tried, but Bucky squeezed her hand. His shoulders were up by his ears.

"Please," he begged, "let me get through this."

"O-okay," she stuttered, her mouth having gone dry.

"But then by prom we were both single, and I thought by kissing you . . . Darcy, I didn't want you to leave for Oxford, and I thought, maybe, that by kissing you I could convince you to stay. I was planning on telling you everything the next morning. You know, I'd even ordered Steve to not come to the diner." He laughed, but she knew what he was going to say next.

"I didn't get to tell you, though," he said, his shoulders sagging. His smile dipped inward. "But I shouldn't have waited so long anyway. I should have told you the moment I knew."

Darcy only became aware that she was crying when Bucky's face started to blur. She blinked, and several tears splashed over her cheeks. "The moment you knew . . ."

"The moment I knew I was in love with you," he finished.

"You're telling me," she said, gulping, "that we could have sorted all of this out six years ago?"

Releasing her hand, Bucky's thumb swiped at the wetness on her face. He laughed brightly. It sounded as if he were on the verge of tears himself. "We were stupid teenagers. We didn't know any better."

She didn't know how they ended up here. How she, Darcy Lewis, got to be the one hearing a confession of love from Bucky Barnes. It didn't make sense.

But it was happening, and it felt too good to ignore.

Darcy's arms went around Bucky's neck like she had done it a million times before. She got on her tiptoes. Pressing her forehead against Bucky's, no resistance detected, she said, "But all of that wasted time."

"We're twenty-three, Darcy," he said. "Be thankful we're not like Harry and Sally, or those people from that movie where the girl dies right at the end after they spent their lives looking for each other. We have so much more time ahead of us."

Bucky's arm coiled around Darcy's waist. He held her to him and she knew to close her eyes. The next moment, she felt Bucky's mouth on hers. It was urgent and warm and wet. His lips parted, and she sighed that same sigh from five years ago, the one she had been holding since she saw Bucky lying half-dead in the hospital.

It didn't magically mend everything. There was still so much the two had to figure out. But Darcy felt like she was waking up, like the world was new and filled with so many opportunities. And Bucky tasted like home, like happiness, and that was good enough for now.

Like he said, they had time ahead of them.


End file.
